


These Nights When We Were Drinking

by anr



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-29
Updated: 2011-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 11:18:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anr/pseuds/anr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the lights are turned down low.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Nights When We Were Drinking

**Author's Note:**

> "Konstantine" (Something Corporate).
> 
> Request: martini

Twenty minutes out of the OR, and he's already two down. He'd probably be on his third by now if he could find the energy to crawl back to the still, and he's contemplating yelling for help -- someone would come, surely; it being an emergency and all -- when Margaret walks in and heads straight for the still, helping herself to a martini.

He raises an eyebrow. "Tough day at the office, dear?"

Holding up a hand, she drains the glass, coughing twice. "I don't want to remember," she says, refilling. She takes a slower sip this time, breathing.

He holds out his own dry glass so she can repair the damage. "Olive?"

She hands him the decanter instead. "You don't have any."

True, but. "BJ painted a couple of pebbles green the other day." He shrugs. "Drink enough and you can't hardly tell the difference."

She makes a face and steps over his dirty laundry, his blood- and mud-stained boots, his discarded stethoscope, and sits on the ground beside his chair. "I'll pass. Thank you."

He should probably offer her his seat. Probably. "Bottoms up."

  


* * *

  


Charles walks in, sees them drinking together, walks out again.

"You can stay," he tells her solemnly, refilling her glass with the last of the gin.

When she laughs, her shoulder presses his leg.

  


* * *

  


"We saved twenty-three lives," she says, her head resting against his knee. "It was a good day."

They lost fifteen in triage, five on their table, and three of those twenty-three won't ever wake from the anaesthesia. He knows she knows this too. "Yeah," he agrees, drinking, "good day."

  


* * *

  


BJ stumbles in while they're watching the still, waiting for a glass' worth to fill now that they've emptied the decanter. Without a word, BJ crashes onto his bunk, rolls onto his side and drags his blanket up and over his head.

"Now?" she asks, shifting as though to get up and retrieve the glass.

He drops his hand to her shoulder and squeezes, keeping her seated. He shakes his head. "Little more."

  


* * *

  


He lets her up to fetch the glass eventually, and she sits on his lap when she returns, her legs draping over one of his thighs and her forehead pressing against his jaw. His right hand is on her leg, fingers tracing scalpel incisions on the inside of her thigh.

"I have a pass for Tokyo," she says between shared sips.

He has no idea what day it is and can only hope it's still October. He guesses. "Tomorrow?"

She sighs. "Yesterday. I think."

  


* * *

  


BJ snores.

  


* * *

  


They've done this before but never in the Swamp, and never this drunk (collectively; individually they're probably okay for anything that doesn't involve reading instructions), and those two facts should maybe make this strange and weird and _something_ but they don't. They don't.

Her tongue licks into his mouth, sliding against his own. He thinks he can taste peppermint beneath the gin on her breath and he kisses her deeper, wanting to know for sure. She moves restlessly on his lap, thighs parting, her hip pressing against his dick, and he can feel himself getting hard. Harder.

She mumbles something against his mouth, something that sounds suspiciously unfamiliar -- _Ben_ , maybe -- and that's a jolt he's not expecting. He slides his arm around her shoulders and crushes her closer and decides he heard wrong because whatever it was, she doesn't say it again.

She's still wearing scrubs, they both are, but it doesn't take as much effort as he'd feared to tug at the drawstrings and shuffle them off their hips. She turns on his lap, her back to his chest, and lets her legs fall open across his thighs. When he touches her, his fingers come back wet and slick. She sighs again.

Shifting, he slides into her slowly; shallow strokes going deeper when she leans forward, bracing her hands on his knees. The chair creaks only once. He's breathing out his mouth, one hand on her hip and holding tight, his other palm-flat on her back, and it's tempting to close his eyes but he can't stop watching the little hairs at her nape dampen with sweat as she rocks back and forth.

Her nails drag on his thighs and he thrusts out of rhythm. She does it again and he bites back a moan, _Margaret_.

He comes first, comes harder than he was expecting, his chest seizing around his lungs, and it takes all his fading thought processes to pull her back against him. Her head rolls on his shoulder as he cups her sex with his right hand, her breast with his left. His dick is still inside her as he thumbs her clit, pulling her over the edge, and the tremble of her muscles makes him jerk beneath her. She breathes out in a sharp, heady rush.

 _Margaret_ , he thinks again.

  


* * *

  


His bunk is less than a foot away, invitingly horizontal, but it takes too much energy just to fix their clothing. Attempting to stand and step and sit again would be like begging for trouble.

He slumps in his chair, tugging her across his lap proper again, her legs hanging over his thigh and her face turning into the curve of his neck. Her breathing is soft on his skin, her weight warm and familiar, and he's almost asleep when Radar darts inside the Swamp.

"Choppers!" he says briefly, and darts out again. The door slams shut after him. She tenses.

Closing his eyes, he presses his mouth to her temple and breathes for just a moment longer.

  


* * *

  


They wake BJ and follow him out to where Charles is preparing for triage, to where Klinger is waiting for them with cups of thick, black coffee. They have five minutes, maybe.

They change scrubs and wash and when a soldier is placed on his table, he smiles and tells his joke about the duck, the one that never gets old, no matter how many times he tells it, and holds out his hand for the scalpel she already has waiting for him.

It's Wednesday, he decides.

Her eyes smile at him above her facemask. "Another good day, Doctor."

 _Yeah_ , he thinks. _Yes_. "It will be," he says, and cuts.

  


* * *

The End

**Author's Note:**

> ORIGINAL URL: <http://anr.livejournal.com/429313.html>


End file.
